Spain: Valencia v Sevilla and Boca v River in Madrid

God bless Twitter.

If it hadn't been for Twitter I would not have experienced two amazing football matches during the past six months: the World Cup Final in Moscow and the Copa Libertadores Final in Madrid.

A couple of years ago I put a spare Everton ticket on Twitter and the buyer was a guy called Tim; an Australian Evertonian living in London.

Since then I've helped him with tickets for various Everton games and he's helped get me in to two of the most difficult-to-get-in-to matches in world football. And I'm extremely grateful.

The 2018 Copa Libertadores Final - the showpiece game of South America's equivalent of the Champions League - was an unprecedented football occasion. The contest pitted together the arch rivals of Argentina's capital city: Boca Juniors and River Plate.

The final was a two-legged affair.

The first leg, in Boca's Bombonera stadium (which I visited during my South American jaunt in 2011), finished goalless. And on the way to the second leg, the Boca team coach was pelted with missiles and gas by River fans as it made its way into the Monumental stadium.

Boca refused to play the game, and then ensued a couple of weeks of dialogue and debate about how to settle the tie.

Eventually, Real Madrid stepped in and offered to stage the second leg at their neutral home: the Bernabeu.

Fans in Buenos Aires were understandably incensed, as were various officials in the Argentine football authorities. And the shame was on CONMEBOL - the South American football federation - who could not vouch for the safety of players and fans if the game were to take place on their continent.

So South America's loss became Europe's gain, and this mother of all derbies - and the circus that surrounded it - travelled across the Atlantic ocean to Spain.

I was an interested observer when all the above was playing out in news bulletins and newspaper columns. But my interest increased exponentially when, with four or five days to the game, I got a text out the blue from Tim: 'I've got a spare ticket for the Libertadores. Do you want it?'

Within 24 hours I had booked flights after getting the green light from my ever-understanding wife.

On the way out I chose to fly via Valencia and get a train to Madrid, mainly for financial reasons as it was cheaper that way, but also because I'd never visited Valencia.

My flight was an early one on the Saturday morning, and when I got off the metro in Valencia's city centre it was only 11am Spanish time. It felt great to be away in a new city, on a bonus adventure that I'd only booked a few days before, and with a fun 48 hours ahead of me.

I'd already booked my train from Valencia to Madrid for 6pm and so had a few hours to explore one of Europe's most iconic cities. I spent time wandering the back streets, had a lovely early lunchtime beer in a sun-filled square and came across some colourful street art.

It was December, the sun was shining, I had a ticket for tomorrow's Biggest Game in World Football, and all was good in the world.

At one point I walked past a football fan in a Sevilla shirt. I suddenly had a thought: it's the weekend, I'm in a football-mad country, there might be some games happening.

I had been so focused on the River v Boca match in Madrid and with so little time between booking my trip and getting out there, that I'd completely overlooked the Spanish league fixtures.

I checked on my iPhone and - low and behold - Valencia were playing that day against Sevilla. Not a bad game to stumble upon!

A quick and successful search for a ticket on the official Valencia website (50 or 60 euro from memory), a dash to the train station to dump my bag in a left luggage locker and a failed attempt to switch my train tickets (I had to suck up the cost and buy a new one), and I was headed for the famous Mestalla stadium in the east of the city.

What a bonus.

I walked the 20 minutes or so from the city centre to the neighbourhood housing Valencia's iconic ground, and sat down for a fantastic paella on a side street teeming with fans.

I then headed to Manolo's famous bar, literally within the shadow of the stands. 

Manolo is Spain's most legendary football fan. If you've watched the Spanish national team on TV during any World Cup or European Championship during the last 20-30 years you'll have probably seen him, drum in hand, large black hat on head.

And there he was behind the bar, as he is for every Valencia home game, serving the fans, shaking hands.

I picked up my ticket from a booth and had a stroll around the ground.

The Mestalla is a ground I've seen so many times on TV, heard so many stories about from fellow fans, so it was great to be here in person. And completely unexpectedly too.

I had a ticket for a tier behind the goal (always a safe-ish bet for a decent atmosphere) and found myself close to the 150-odd Sevilla fans, tucked into the top corner of the ground.

The Mestalla is literally crumbling in places and has clearly seen better days, but its famous steep, towering stands were as epic as I'd hoped.

When you watch a lot of football in a lot of stadia, it becomes rarer and rarer to be genuinely wowed when you walk into a new ground for the first time. But twice in one weekend, at the Mestalla and then the following day at the Bernabeu, I got that wow factor.

This was a big game featuring two relative heavyweights of European football. Valencia, so often the nearly men, and Sevilla - UEFA/Europa League serial winners.

I spent the match in a few different spots along the top tier of the stand, finding spare seats or standing specs to to take in the 1-1 draw.

Sevilla scored early in the second half and were much the better team throughout. Despite getting a 92nd-minute equaliser, the locals showed their displeasure at the end of the game with a white-handkerchief farewell to their hapless players and board.

I hot-footed it from the ground to the train station to get my intercity train to the Spanish capital.

A couple of hours later and I was in Madrid, my first proper visit to one of Europe's most popular destinations (I spent a few hours in a Madrid airport on my way home from Villarreal v Everton in 2005, but that doesn't count).

The next 24 hours was superb. 

To be in the city ahead of a game that carried such importance, not just to the two clubs involved but to a whole continent, felt like a real privilege. 

I spent the morning taking in the sites and soaking up the atmosphere, before meeting Phil who'd also managed to secure a ticket for the match.

In mid-afternoon we headed north on the metro to a stop just south of the Bernabeu. Despite a well-publicised alcohol ban in the bars surrounding the stadium, Tim (who'd flown in that morning) and I found a bar full of Boca Juniors fans who were in full voice and full of beer.

We had a couple of drinks and tried out some broken Spanish with the Boca fans.

We should have left the bar earlier as the queues at the ticket checkpoint were ridiculous.

The heavy-handed police - are they ever anything else at football matches in Spain? - treated us like cattle, prodding us with batons, forcing crushing and refusing to use common sense again and again.

Women and kids were frightened, some fans were getting increasingly exasperated by the slow pace of movement as we inched towards the gates, and you could sense the fear and stress in the air.

Eventually we finally made it through. Hallelujah. 

Our tickets were in the River Plate end, but my expectation before arriving in Madrid was that there would be few genuine fans travelling from South America (because of the costs and such little notice), and so it wouldn't really feel like an 'end'. 

How wrong I was.

I managed to finally get to my seat about 5 minutes before kick-off, getting that lump-in-throat feeling as I emerged from the concourse, up the steps into the stand and saw the inside of the Bernabeu for the first time. Wow.

The four-tiered monster of a ground was packed and throbbing with noise. Half blue, up the far end, and the red half surrounding me.

The sound was incredible. Booming anthems rolled down the tiers, the River fans were screaming at the top of their voices, veins and eyes bulging. 

Despite the raucous scenes in the Boca bar before the game, and swaying crowds in the Sol square of the city earlier in the day, and the sheer numbers of Boca and River fans everywhere in Madrid, I hadn't expected an atmosphere so loud and passionate. It was bloody brilliant.

I would obviously normally choose a blue team over a red team, and have always had a soft spot for Maradona's Boca Juniors, but I was slap-bang behind the goal in the middle of the hardcore of River fans. These were not locals who decided to buy a ticket and join in the party. These were the real deal.

Tattooed arm sleeves of River players and badges, big plumes of weed smoke, weathered faces of people who had seen the highs and lows of many years following their club home, away and - now - across continents.

I knew there was a match happening below me, but spent much of the game taking in the fans, the stadium, the noise, the songs. 

The standard of football was poor, but entertaining as a result. Defenders who couldn't defend, and strikers who kept fluffing their lines.

A goal apiece either side of half time meant the game finished 1-1 and went to extra time.

River took the lead for the first time through Quintero in the second period of extra time and Boca, who had already had a man sent off, were reduced to nine men when they got an injury and had used all their subs.

With legs flagging, River added a third in the 122nd minute when Martinez broke away from the rest of the field (Boca goalkeeper included) and slotted the ball into an empty net.

Cue pandemonium from those around me. Grown men crying into the shoulders of their friends, people tumbling down stairs, falling over seats, screaming with joy.

It was the biggest match in the history of both clubs. Facing their arch rivals in the final of finals, winner takes all. And I was right in the middle of the winners. An awesome memory; one of my favourite ever football experiences without a doubt.

I was still buzzing the following day as I took a long walk around the city. I liked Madrid - it was easy to get around, felt friendly and welcoming, and had some interesting shops, bars and cafes. I'm sure I'll be back.

Russia: 2018 World Cup final (Moscow)

This is part 2 of my 2018 Russia World Cup story. Check out what happened in St Petersburg here.

I'd booked a cheap hostel for the Saturday and Sunday nights, just so I could make use of its showers and luggage locker before and after the match.

It was in the clubbing district of Red October, just across the river from the Kremlin, and we therefore experienced the strange sensation of driving past clubbers falling out of venues at 9am on our arrival.

Alan and I walked from there into the Kremlin and met Tim, Tyrone and Alan at a cafe next to Red Square.

I went to Moscow on the way back from Everton's match in Krasnodar in 2014 so was familiar with the main tourist attractions. It meant I wasn't desperate to tear around the city ticking off sights and could enjoy the day at a more leisurely pace.

After coffee I went to a pedestrianised street off Red Square where I met my old England-supporting friend Pete (aka, PJB). While waiting for him I got chatting to a Russian who was sitting next to me on a bench.

He worked for PepsiCo and spoke great English. He explained how positive the World Cup had been for the Russian people, in that it had 'put a smile on our faces and changed how other people look at Russia'.

He was particularly pleased that the hooligans, who had been warned against starting trouble by the authorities, had listened to their advice and downed tools.

As was becoming the norm, he went off to get a drink and came back with one for me: a local IPA. A good bloke with a good taste in alcohol.

It was obvious by lunchtime that the Croats had significantly outnumbered the French in the streets. Their checkaboard shirts were everywhere, and their songs filled the air.

The French fans were dotted about, more discreet and not obviously grouping together around a shared repertoire of songs.

PJB hadn't changed in the few years since we last met. Still deadpan funny and great company for a few hours in a foreign city.

We spent many a trip together in the mid-noughties following England abroad to places like Poland, Liechtenstein, Portugal and Sweden.

We took a walk down the 'bar street' where we'd met, and everyone wanted a picture with the replica World Cup trophy that I'd bought from eBay a few days before heading to Russia.

I got the idea in 2014 when in Brazil for the World Cup. At one of the games, a fan had a full-sized replica trophy and it made me smile. And lots of others too. My first instinct was to want to hold it (and then get a picture of me holding it).

In Russia it was causing the same reaction in fans from all over the world. Parents were tapping me on the shoulder and asking if their kids could have a pic with it, fully-grown men and women wanted a pic with it, everyone wanted a pic with it.

For some of the afternoon I had to put it back in my bag as we couldn't walk two metres without being stopped.

At least five people asked me how much I'd sell it for. Basically, next time you go to a World Cup take a batch of replica trophies and you'll pay for your whole trip in profits.

Kick-off was at 6pm and I wanted to sample the pre-match build-up near the stadium, so I left Pete in town (who unfortunately didn't have a ticket) and got the metro to the Sportivaya stop.

After all the positivity that my trophy had received in Red Square, it was a shame that the stewards on the turnstiles at the stadium told me I couldn't take it into the match.

Their reason was valid. It was too big and heavy and could be dangerous if used either as a weapon or dropped onto someone from a height.

I understood, but still tried my luck and attempted a couple of different turnstiles before accepting defeat and taking to the left luggage tent outside the perimeter of the ground.

The small festival outside the stadium was an ode to FIFA's corporate greed. Everything badged up and branded by one of their myriad sponsors.

I was half-expecting to see the great and good of the celebrity world, but made do with a passing Gordon Taylor (PFA chief) and a brief chat with comedian Rob Beckett in the queue for the FIFA merchandise shop.

There was a good spread of fans from around the world - the Willy Wonka Golden Ticket holders for this game of all games - including the ubiquitous Mexicans.

I'm always surprised that major football matches I go to - Premier League games, matches at Wembley, World Cups - don't have better pre-match and half-time entertainment for fans.

I've heard American sports, particularly American football and baseball, have more entertaining stuff laid on and do a better job of really engaging fans - particularly during breaks in play.

Anyway, after an hour or so hanging out near the sterile Coca-Cola DJ tent, including sinking a couple of tepid Budweisers, we headed into the ground.

Tim had bought seats in the FIFA resale period, using a clever technique of keeping multiple browser windows open and hitting FIFA.com as soon as the ticket portal opened. He got lucky, getting four Category 3 tickets at face value (£330...)

Our tickets were in the back row of the upper tier, but the way the ground was designed meant we had a great panoramic view of the whole spectacle - and an added bonus of no people behind us telling us to seat down, knocking drinks over us, etc.

The match itself has been credited as the best World Cup final since 1986. Croatia were clearly up for it from the first whistle, flying in to tackles and running around like rabid dogs on Red Bull.

We had the first use of VAR at a World Cup final, for a supposed handball claim against Perisic in the area. The ref made the bizarre decision that it was a deliberate handball, despite the Croat being about a foot away when the ball was deflected at speed on to his arm.

So, a penalty to France to make it 2-1, and from that point on it was difficult to see a way back for the underdogs.

We had the official French section directly below us, so when the final whistle blew we went and stood among them for the trophy presentation. They sang the Marseillaise, waved their flags and hugged.

I was happy for them but my heart on the day was with Croatia. So close to claiming the biggest prize in world sport.

Between the final whistle and the trophy presentation, the heavens opened. We were under cover, as was Vladimir Putin who had a lackey hold an umbrella over him, but the players and dignitaries were completely soaked.

There was an almighty firework display exploding from the roof of the stadium and gold ticker-tape was cannoned into the air.

A fitting end to what was probably the best tournament - for football - I can remember.

Luckily the rain had abated when we left the ground and I made my way back to town on the metro where I met Tim, Alan and Tyrone back in Red Square.

Fans were milling around, lying or sitting on the cobbles under the shadow of the Kremlin and the stunning Basil cathedral and soaking up the last of the special World Cup atmosphere.

We hung around for a bit, chatting to other tourists and soaking up the final hours of an incredible World Cup.

We had early flights out of Moscow in the morning and, following a tedious search to find a usable toilet in the streets surrounding Red Square, headed back over the river to my hostel.

I had a shower, booked another Uber, and Alan and I headed off to the airport.

Our journey home was via Riga in Latvia, where we were delayed for a few hours. Having had no sleep for over 30 hours and following the stinky, sleep-deprived train from St P to Moscow, I was exhausted.

But what a trip, and what a lucky man I am. Most people won't get to go to a World Cup final, and I've now been to two (2006 was the other).

Maybe a hat-trick before I'm gone?